


merry go round of life

by IgnoreThePineapples



Category: Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Jaskier | Dandelion, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Unrequited Love, also yen is the wicked witch of the wastes but she is Not Evil, haha suckers you thought, i would never do her dirty like that, in which geralt is howl, it works i promise, jaskier is sophie, she is most certainly not the villain of this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnoreThePineapples/pseuds/IgnoreThePineapples
Summary: In which Geralt has a moving castle, Yenn has a quick temper, and Jaskier thinks this is all a bit of an overreaction.(A fic which loosely follows the plot of Howl's Moving Castle; a little of the book, a little of the film.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier’s new song had been a hit, thank the gods.

He’d been running low on inspiration recently, and with a war on and all, the life of a travelling bard was harder than ever. Drinks were scarce, coin scarcer, and inspiration was few and far between. Rumours of the Witch of the Wastes’ return and whispers of the Butcher of Blaviken straying near in his roaming castle were, in many ways, a blessing. An easy story to ham up and distract the locals, take their minds off of bigger issues and maybe get a few tips.

The bard was back in his room, upstairs in the inn, winding down after the most successful performance he’d seen in a long time, when he heard a sharp rap on the door. Always ready to meet a fan, Jaskier called out an invitation.

It swung open to reveal a strikingly beautiful woman - almost intimidatingly so - draped elegantly against the frame.

Jaskier almost dropped his lute.

“You’re the bard, yes?”

Jaskier threw on his most charming smile. “Why, madam, I am none other than the bard you seek. You may have h-“

She held her finger to her lips, walking towards him slowly. Jaskier swallowed. “You wrote that song tonight? About the Witch of the Wastes?”

Jaskier nodded. She stepped closer still, so close that he could smell her intoxicating perfume - lilac and gooseberries. She peered up at him curiously for a moment, before sighing and turning away.

“Pity, really,” she murmured, “you really did have such a nice voice.”

“Wha-“ Jaskier never finished the sentence. The woman waved him off dismissively, and suddenly he felt his throat seize up as if there was a cord constricting it. He dropped to his knees, clawing at his neck as if he could pry away the invisible rope, and he barely noticed as the woman - _the Witch of the Wastes_ , he realised with mounting horror - strode away, the door slamming it shut behind her.

Jaskier couldn’t have told you how long he was on the ground before the horrible sensation finally faded.

“Fuck me,” he said, stretching out his legs before he realised, with mounting horror, that he hadn’t actually said it. The silence was unbroken.

 _Fuck_ , he said again, but nothing came out. He couldn’t speak. _This is uncalled for_ , he thought. _There’s constructive criticism and then there’s this_. He rushed over to the mirror on the stand by the wall and, thank the gods _,_ everything else seemed to be intact. _At least she left my beauty_ , he sighed.

Oh gods, what was he going to do now? His voice was his living, his career, his life. What did he have without it? How could he fix it?

He groaned, dropping his head against the glass of the mirror. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

There was only one thing for it. He would wander off into the wastes like a poor heroine from one of his songs, and roam until he found a dashing hero to save him from his curse. It always seemed to work out for them. It couldn’t get much worse, could it?

//

Turned out, it could get worse.

 _Perhaps this was a mistake_ , he thought, pinned to the ground by something with a hell of a lot of eyes and even more teeth. He cringed as it hissed, its foul breath warm against his face, viscous drool dripping onto his face.

And to think, he couldn’t even scream.

 _Damn my artistic vision_ , he cursed, _this isn’t nearly as romantic a demise as I thought it would be_.

He screwed his eyes shut as the beast reared back, preparing to take a final blow, but the blow never came. He paused, cracking one eye open, and let out a silent shriek.

The monster was no longer drooling on him, which was a positive. It now had far fewer eyes, and even fewer teeth. In part, because its head lay inches away from Jaskier’s on the ground to his left, its body to his right. Jaskier laid back down for a moment, trying to work out this sequence of events, before sitting up and scanning around for his knight in shining armour. Or as it turned out, his knight in bloodied leather armour.

His hero didn’t look too happy with him.

“What were you thinking?” He growled, throwing down his sword and stalking over to the bard. “Alone in the wastes, do you know what’s lurking out here? What sort of fool-“

Jaskier didn’t hear the end of the sentence, because as he opened his mouth to respond he was hit with a wave of exhaustion and passed out before he remembered that he couldn’t.

//

This was hardly the first time Jaskier had woken up to someone stood over him brandishing a knife, he had to admit. Usually, however, they were spurned lovers or fathers or spouses; the child was a first.

If he could, Jaskier would have shrieked. He promptly toppled back off the other side of the bed.

The girl scowled, clearly unimpressed.

“Why did Geralt bring you here? He never lets strangers onto Roach.”

Jaskier peered up at her in confusion over the bed, from where he was sat on the floor.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” she continued, “but he never tells me anything so what else is new?”

Jaskier did his best to look perplexed, and shook his head at her with a shrug. Her scowl deepened and she huffed, dropping the knife.

“Are you not going to talk to me either? Really? Why is everyone around here so quiet all the time?”

Jaskier gestured haphazardly to his throat and made an attempt to talk. Realisation washed over the girl’s face.

“You can’t talk? Oh, I’m sorry! It’s just that Geralt can, he just doesn’t, so he just sits there all broody and it’s exhausting and so boring sometimes. So why can’t you talk? Are you a mute? Or is it a curse?”

Jaskier nodded quickly.

“Oh wow! A curse? That’s really interesting. Who cursed you? Were they scary? Or was it an object, like a cursed object? Was your family cursed, and you inherited it?”

Jaskier decided it would be best just to let her talk, and started to scan the room.

His breath caught as his gaze fell on the shattered remains of his lute, piled neatly at the foot of the bed.

“I’m sorry, I forgot.” The girl had clearly followed his eyes. “Geralt said it must have been destroyed when the monster attacked you.”

Jaskier swallowed, cradling the remains in his hands. She wasn’t the best lute in the world, but he’d had her since he’d left Oxenfurt. Old faithful, he’d called her, even when Valdo had mocked him for it. And now, without her, he had no way of making music. What good was a bard without his music?

Before the girl could ask him any more questions (it wasn’t as if he could answer them, anyway) he made a sort of sweeping gesture and tried his best to look questioning. It took her a moment, but she seemed to get the gist.

“This is Roach,” she said, as if it was obvious. "You know, the castle."

Roach? A castle? There weren’t any castles near where he was, as far as Jaskier knew. How did-

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. An angry man with a big sword, with a castle that could move. Fuck. Oh gods. This was the Butcher of Blaviken’s den. He was going to die, and the Butcher was going to eat his heart, and he’d never sing again.

It was at that moment that it occurred to him that he was not, in fact, dead. He was, actually, the opposite of dead. He’d been saved, for one. His lute had clearly been carefully brought back with him, even though it was beyond repair. And there was a little girl telling him all about _Geralt_.

This was all rather a lot. Jaskier wanted to lie back down.

As he went to, however, there was a knock at the door.

The man who stepped into the room was definitely not how he’d pictured the Butcher. He knew he was prone to a vivid imagination, but he’d imagined him with horns or fangs or something else appropriately terrifying. Now that he saw him up close, gods help him, the man was _hot_.

The man- the Butcher- Geralt hummed when he saw Jaskier. “Awake. Good.”

“He’s been cursed!” Ciri chirped, with far too much enthusiasm. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to blame her, he’d be exactly the same in her position. Geralt gave her a rather admonishing look, but gave Jaskier a look that seemed to mean go on then.

Jaskier threw up his hands in frustration.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this make sense? I hope it does. I had this thought about six months ago. Now, finally, I've got it all written, and I'm just editing. Should be an update every couple of days.
> 
> Comments and kudos mean the absolute world <3


	2. Chapter 2

_I’ve got my work cut out for me_ , he thought in dismay as he took in the disarray. Now, Jaskier didn’t consider himself the tidiest person, but this was just downright disgraceful. A man has _standards_.

There were monster guts in the carpet, for crying out loud.

There seemed to be monster guts everywhere Jaskier looked, in fact. There was a table in the corner of the living room piled high with body parts the bard couldn’t even begin to label. Every time he tried to tidy any of it up, however, Geralt had berated him for it. He'd finally learnt his lesson after Geralt had returned late at night, dripping with blood and growling about the potions not working because _someone_ had ruined the system of his potions ingredients. Frankly, Jaskier wished he would just learn to label things.

Ciri's room, strangely enough, was exceptionally neat.

Jaskier wondered if it was behaviour learned from her mother. He hadn't explicitly been told about her and Geralt's relationship, but as far as he could glean they were a father-daughter with a mother who was out of the picture, for one reason or another. Geralt, for all his growling and menace, was remarkably sweet with the girl, 

Equally, Ciri could be surprisingly vicious when she wanted to be. She had made it abundantly clear to Jaskier very early on that under no circumstances was he to disturb the spiders in the rafters, nor the mice living under her bed (in a cosy little nest which looked suspiciously like it had been made by a certain young girl), nor the swallows that had built a nest over the front door. 

All in all, there were strict limits on what Jaskier was actually _allowed_ to clean.

Eventually Ciri took pity on him, pulling him away from fruitlessly trying to scrub something ungodly out of a dented tin pot to show him her 'favourite spot in the _entire_ _castle_ '. This secret spot turned out to be a tiny little balcony, which from what Jaskier could gather had been haphazardly tacked onto the exterior of the castle at Ciri's request. 

“What’s your name?” Ciri asked after a while spent precariously perched on the railings, watching the wastes pass as they roamed. “I feel like I can’t not ask that before it gets uncomfortable.”

She had a point. At the moment, he was simply being referred to as 'bard', which was purely a lucky guess based on his poor lute. Writing hadn’t been a success; it seemed the curse extended to all forms of communication barring vague failing and gesticulating, and even that didn’t extend into any form of sign language.

“I’ve been meaning to ask the same thing,” came a voice from behind them.

Jaskier startled, jumping and almost falling off the castle. Geralt’s hand shot out and caught his arm just before he tipped over the edge. Jaskier glared at him, and Ciri laughed.

“You’ll get used to him, don’t worry.”

Geralt scowled at her, but there was nothing behind it. He was still holding onto Jaskier’s forearm, steadying him as he got settled, and Jaskier was loathe to change that.

The moment stretched on endlessly, before Geralt coughed awkwardly and let go.

//

It still shocked him, how beautiful the wastes could be. Later that day he’d thrown together a little picnic as they’d crossed a field of wildflowers, and now he sat reclined in Roach’s shadow, listening to the breeze whistle through the grass.

Geralt squatted next to him almost hesitantly, as if he might be disturbing something, but Jaskier patted the ground with a smile.

“Ciri was right,” Geralt murmured. “We’ve got to call you something. Is there any way you could, I don’t know, show us? Give us a clue?”

Jaskier nodded slowly, thinking for a moment. Now that he thought about it, Jaskier would be a fairly simple name to demonstrate, if Geralt could work it out. He scanned the ground and- Aha!

He plucked the buttercup, showing it to Geralt with a grin. Geralt squinted at it with a furrowed brow.

“Dandelion?”

Bless. Jaskier couldn’t even laugh because the Witcher’s expression was so earnest. He nodded, and Geralt sighed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. _Dandelion_. He could work with that. He tucked the flower behind his ear, relaxing back in the grass and popping a grape into his mouth.

//

Geralt often got back late. Nature of the job, and all that. But, by the time he often returned from a hunt, everyone else in the castle tended to already be asleep.

He set down his swords by the fire, and out of habit pulled back the curtain to Dandelion’s bed, which was little more than a mattress shunted under the stairs. He was curled up, fast asleep, and-

He was singing to himself.

Geralt frowned. Dandelion’s voice was soft, just half-phrases and hummed tunes, but clear as a bell. And beautiful.

He didn’t mean to, but he lingered, listening to the little tune until Dandelion finally sighed and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow.

“Hmm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me posting two chapters in two days. The next couple of updates are going to take a little longer because they contain actual relevant plot but never fear! The ending is written.
> 
> As you can probably tell I'm playing fast and loose with both the Witcher and HMC canon but I hope you've been enjoying so far! if you like it, let me know! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.. it's been a month. in my defence, it was a busy month. i moved to a different country, started a joint major at uni and got covid-19 in the space of a week. this has not been good for the old depression brain. but i'm here!

It hadn’t occurred to Jaskier that Geralt just… went shopping. Yes, nobody really seemed to know what ‘the Butcher’ looked like, but just wandering around a marketplace with him was possibly the most stressful experience of Jaskier’s life. At any moment, he expected someone to point and shout, and then to be faced with a hail of rotten fruit and stale bread, perhaps a stone or two.

That being said, he wasn’t entirely sure why people were so afraid of Geralt. What had he really done? All Jaskier had actually heard were boogeyman stories meant to scare children into obedience. The man beside him didn’t seem like much of a Butcher.

The scariest thing he’d done so far was haggle with a vendor, and he’d still ended up paying a good price for the loaf.

As they milled through the crowd, Jaskier heard one of the vendors mutter to a patron about how ‘the Butcher was seen near Novigrad, haven’t you heard?’, and Geralt’s face had completely shuttered off at the use of the name. There was something there, Jaskier thought, that would need probing. If only he had the words to probe.

Geralt was staring at something, at the far end of the square, but Jaskier couldn’t quite follow his gaze. Geralt pulled out of his reverie and reached out, tugging Jaskier’s arm gently. Jaskier followed.

The stall Geralt had been looking at was fairly sparse, compared to the others. Instead of being laden with goods, it displayed but a few on various hand-crafted instruments. In the centre, pride of place, was the most beautiful lute Jaskier had ever laid eyes upon.

Geralt was watching him carefully. His arms were crossed over his chest, expression guarded as Jaskier took in the sight before him.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded, not quite following.

“How much for the lute?” he asked the vendor, and Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in shock. The lute couldn’t be worth less than a thousand orens, more money than Jaskier had ever seen at once. The vendor also looked startled at the request, and Jaskier held out a hand to the Witcher in a halting motion, but was ignored. “How much?”

And then, all of a sudden, Jaskier was holding the lute. It was exactly as well balanced as he thought it would be, elegant without being overly delicate, engravings tasteful rather than tacky. The strap was embroidered with dandelions. It was the single greatest gift Jaskier had ever received.

Geralt was observing with a carefully blank expression, but his eyes were eager.

Jaskier threw his arms around the Witcher’s neck to hide just how close to tears he was, lute hanging at his side by the strap. Hesitantly, Geralt hugged back. “The last one seemed to mean so much to you,” Geralt murmured, “I thought it might be nice to hear you play. Do you like it?”

Jaskier pulled back and beamed, which only widened as he saw the beginnings of a smile tug at Geralt’s lips.

All of a sudden, however, Geralt froze. His head snapped back to the two women who had been gossiping before, but Jaskier only caught the vaguest glimpses of their conversation; “Nilfgaard” ... soldiers” ... “close”.

Geralt looked as if he’d seen a ghost. He grabbed onto Jaskier’s doublet and hauled him through the crowd, straight back to the shopfront and into the castle. Jaskier was left stood dumbfounded as Geralt yelled for Ciri, who paled as he muttered an explanation to her under his breath. And just like that, they were off. Ciri ran in one direction, Geralt the other, fiddling with various magical instruments and other things that Jaskier couldn’t even begin to discern. With a shout from Geralt, the castle jolted into motion, sending Jaskier staggering back against the wall.

It wasn’t until the castle was tucked safely into a valley that everything seemed to take a sigh of relief. Jaskier, still half-plastered to the far wall, wanted an explanation. He marched into the centre of the room, gesticulating wildly in a manner that he hoped conveyed a general _what the Fuck_ , and Geralt groaned.

“Oh.” Ciri said.

“Hmm.”

“You told him, right?” Ciri whispered.

“Hmm.” Geralt repeated.

Ciri put her face in her hands.

This did not clear things up for Jaskier. He put his hands on his hips, signalling for them to continue.

Geralt slumped into the seat by the fireplace, manic energy from moments before completely absent. “Nilfgaardian soldiers had made their way to Tretogor, you heard that much?”

Jaskier nodded, settling into the sofa.

“They made their way there because they were after something.”

“Someone,” added Ciri.

Jaskier knew this much. The war raging between Nilfgaard and Cintra, and the subsequent disappearance of the Cintran Princess was common knowledge.

_Wait._

_Oh,_ _fuck_.

Jaskier looked between the two incredulously, before taking an obscenely over-dramatic bow towards Ciri- Princess Cirilla. Her face brightened ever so slightly.

“Law of Surprise,” Geralt murmured, “I claimed her as Nilfgaard advanced on Cintra. They’re still searching for her.”

“We try to stay one step ahead,” Ciri continued, “literally, with Roach. Set off whenever we hear they’re getting closer.”

“This isn’t a permanent solution.” Geralt eyed the door warily. “The doors will need to be moved, to distance ourselves from the approaching forces.”

“Do we get to make suggestions?” Ciri asked, suddenly brightening up. “There was that really pretty village we passed by a few months ago-”

“Too far south.” He sighed, before looking over to Jaskier. “If you have any ideas, I think I can scrounge up a map from somewhere. You could point them out.” 

Jaskier nodded slowly, processing this deluge of unexpected information. This really was shaping up like one of his songs, he mused. A lost princess, hidden away by her knight in shining armour (albeit the shine on Geralt’s armour was mostly gore). Now he had a lute he might actually be able to start composing it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not too happy with the ending of this chapter. i couldn't beat it into the shape i wanted it, but it got to the point where i would have procrastinated it forever if i hadn't just gone ahead and posted it. i'll probably play around with the beginning of the next chapter to try and do the thing i wanted, so a new update might take a little while but not a month again, i swear! it's a lot of exposition that is kicking my arse but good news: the rest of the fic is completely written and edited, so no more worries about me disappearing. 
> 
> the positive support for the fic has kept me motivated, thank you so much <3

**Author's Note:**

> Does this make sense? I hope it does. I had this thought about six months ago. Now, finally, I've got it all written, and I'm just editing. Should be an update every couple of days.
> 
> Comments and kudos mean the absolute world <3


End file.
